


Don't Look in His Eyes

by ObsianCaetus



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 06:15:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsianCaetus/pseuds/ObsianCaetus
Summary: O'Shea's night patrol takes a turn for the strange and disturbing.





	Don't Look in His Eyes

“Base to O’Shea. How’s it lookin’ out there?” The radio on her belt crackled, prompting her to pause and pull the thing off her belt.

“Quiet, Johnson. You actually gonna do any of your patrols or your ass gonna be in that chair when I get back?” She teased gruffly, amused by her own words.

“Fuck off.” 

O’Shea chuckled to herself as she put the radio back in its holster and clicked her flashlight back on as she resumed her patrol. She worked the third shift security for a privately owned lot of warehouses meant for shipping storage. It was a boring job but quiet and she preferred the quiet. When she returned home after three tours overseas, adjusting to civilian life had been the hardest thing she had to do and, given her experiences, it was difficult to sleep at night so she preferred to work these late night gigs.

As she rounded a corner to go between two dark warehouses, her boot sends something metal and clattering ahead of her across the asphalt. Reflexes trained for combat, O’Shea’s flashlight immediately clicked on and focused on the object that had startled her. It was just an empty beer can, likely from one of the homeless that squat in the area. The tension drained from her shoulders as it sank in that she was safe, that this was not a warzone.

“Get a grip girl.” She mutters to herself as she swings the beam of light side to side to check the entrances.

The door to her left was slightly ajar, the door handle askew and the jam bent slightly, as if something had impacted it pretty hard. She reached for her radio to get ahold of Johnson again.

“O’Shea to  b ase . Looks like we’ve got a visitor in warehouse seven-b. Copy?” She reported, but only quiet static met her as no one responded on the other end.

“Johnson, do you read?” Again, no response. “That motherfucker…” O’Shea growled as she put the radio away and slowly pushed the door open so it wouldn’t make much noise

The warehouse was dark and quiet but as soon as she crossed the threshold, a heavy smell struck her and made her nose feel like it was on fire upon her first breath. She paused, almost staggering, to cover her mouth with the collar of her shirt. Despite the unpleasant smell, which reminded her of rotted flesh that had been in humid heat for a week, she continued her sweep of the warehouse. The air felt like it was getting thicker as she moved further into the warehouse, the halo of her flashlight aimed towards the ground. The dust and dirt had been disturbed recently; marked with fresh footprints but O’Shea noted there were at least four distinct shoe impressions and it looked as if they had been running… or three of them had been chasing a fourth. She knew, by protocol, that she should leave and call back to  base or even call the police but someone might be in danger or worse.

She had to be sure.

The smell was getting heavier and heavier and she couldn’t stop herself from gagging and coughing as her body tried to reject the poisoned air. As she rounded a large stack of boxes, her light shone on a pair of shoes, heels facing her.

“Hey! Identify yourself!” She shouted, lifting the light so she illuminated the figure, but they did not obey her command. “You listening?!”

As O’Shea drew closer, she came to realize that the figure was frozen in place like a mannequin. It was a young man, left arm cocked back with a piece of rebar in his grasp, as if he had been mid-swing. Something about him was uncanny and she touched his arm, gasping in horror as she realize she was touching human skin. This man was in full rigor, standing up but there was no pulse to him, only a lingering warmth. O’Shea swallowed thickly and swung her flashlight around the open area, finding two more. All three victims looked as if they were barely out of their teens, frozen in a single moment forever.

“What the … ? “ O’Shea mumbled under her breath as she walked around them with morbid fascination, still trying not to choke on the miasma permeating the warehouse. “It couldn’t be…”

The crunch of glass under her boot startled her and she stepped back and swung the flashlight’s beam down to find a pair of broken sunglasses that she had broken even further. The lenses were shattered and the frame twisted but as she bent to pick it up, something etched on the right side of the frames made her jaw drop. O’Shea turned back around, finally notice the small trail of blood drops leading away from the three assailants and she followed, the smell so strong here that it took all of her effort not to pass as she breathed shallowly. The sounds of soft whimpering and muttering reached her and she carefully peered around a stack of wooden boxes to see a figured huddled on the floor; clothes dirty, torn, and flecked with blood. Taking a deep breath, O’Shea pressed her back against the boxes behind her and closed her eyes before rounding the corner.

“Aurelius?” She called, the whimpering stopping in response, surprised she had called out their name.

“Sergeant?”


End file.
